Surgery
by Darkhymns
Summary: In Sans' fight against the fallen human, things go from bad to worse. But everything comes full circle, doesn't it?


The kid had killed him before.

Sans stood in the Judgement Hall with nothing else prepared but a list of jokes, accusations, and the dance routine of bones he practiced in his head. He expected the human's silence, and the shuffling steps they took, as if pulled forward by an insistent hand. But it was the smile that caught him off guard. Wide, close-lipped, stretching from ear to ear. Eyes revealed shining blackness, like some lifeless doll. Yet their excitement was plain to see, ruthless in their joy. He knew then that they had killed him before and wanted to do it again.

"heh." Sans couldn't help but keep his grin. It was the only thing going for him. "you're some kind of a freak, huh?"

The child didn't seem bothered by that.

When the fight started, Sans already knew that any chance of victory was practically nil by this point. His surprise attacks weren't acting so very surprising, and his constant bone patterns didn't seem to be enough to trip the kid up. There'd be a small graze here, a whack of a fibula against flesh there, but nothing so significant. The kid dodged like an acrobat, and took the seizure of their very soul in stride, letting Sans slam them into the ground, or wall, or ceiling, and then do a small hop at the end, just enough to avoid the display of white daggers, always aiming for them, and nearly always missing.

There'd be flashes of memory for Sans. It happened sometimes. Usually in less strenuous circumstances, but they did. Like an image of how that ketchup bottle had slipped out of his hand at the bar from some other timeline, some other lost future – but he had now caught it instead, eradicating that possibility. Or of Papyrus picking him up in a bear hug, and accidentally bumping his skull against the ceiling (he would feel the bruise still, despite its non-existence) – but Sans had ducked his head just in time, avoiding both an injury and an apologetic brother. Small things, worthless things. A constant stream of déjà vu that Sans would change unconsciously, making small blips in the timeline, shifting it enough to become something much different.

There were memories of bones striking through the human's chest, tearing apart flesh, spilling blood onto the golden tiles until their color was completely suffocated. Again and again, the images played in his head, hundreds of times, rewinding all the ways of him murdering the kid. Except now, he couldn't seem to follow through. Where a bone should've gone through the kid's palm, making them drop their knife, making them turn their head away before being pierced by pale destruction – they'd jump to the side, their body whole, their skin barely scratched.

The future was looking very, very dark.

His exhaustion was catching up to him fast. Every dodge he took of his own was always too close, was always just one millisecond shy of being sliced in half. He was near enough to see his reflection on the knife's surface, which was dry and gritty with old powder. It didn't look good for him. He knew that pretty well by now. And each overlapping image of him killing the kid, bones jutting from underneath, lifting up that small body that would shudder and convulse upon the end – well, it was just mocking him now, really.

He was tired to a point that he had to stop. Just for a little while, until he got his bearings. His skull dripped with sweat (or slime, whatever) and he dug his hands back in his pockets, panting, waiting, slowly feeling each of his failures creep along his bones like gnawing termites. He held his last move, like a piece of candy over the kid, something that no way the little runt could ever reach. Even when his eyelids drooped, he still waited, still prepared for the sharp whistle of the air that told him where the knife was, where it was headed. Sliding to the right on his now dirty slippers, he winked, and taunted, and curled his phalanges to take hold of the bones that were already burrowing under the kid's feet-

But the kid didn't stop.

The knife changed direction, slashed downwards to cut clean through his coat, through his shirt, through his ribs. The force was intense, driving him to the floor, making him reflexively clutch the wound on him, as if that would change anything.

Red seeped out - not blood, for monsters don't bleed, but liquid determination, the very physical form of the will to survive. He breathed hard, the taste of it reaching his throat, making him want to hurl it out like some thick, expired beverage. Alphys' little pick-me-up couldn't be praised for its flavor, but it threaded across his bones like spider webs, trying so hard to keep him from falling apart. Drops of slimy perspiration dribbled down his skull, falling to the floor. That determination that kept those amalgamates alive – well, he had nothing else going for him. Why not just take a couple of shots of the stuff and hope for the best? He already knew the risks of it very well, more than Alphys could ever imagine. Drastic times called for drastic, life-threatening dosages.

The knife had cut him deep though, past the limits of what even the best drugs could hope to fix. But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was that the kid wouldn't stop.

The blade flicked upwards, tore through one of his clavicles like paper mache. It skewed the foundation of his skull, making it lob to the right slightly, unhinged and dangerously close to falling off. A wave of searing heat trailed through his spine, which the kid next took focus on. One step forward was all they needed to stab their knife backwards, down at the base to make Sans' legs completely useless. He shook from the intent, from the gleeful smile that possessed the kid's face; out of place and nowhere near the realm of normal. Sans was smiling, too, but not like he had much other choice in the matter.

The kid didn't stop.

An arc right through his sternum, cracking it apart until bone shards flew through the air. The blade was completely coated in red, obscuring its shine but not its nature. Sans reached out with a hand but the knife moved again, severing two phalanges from their joints.

The kid didn't stop.

The knife turned around, and soon it was the hilt that was attacking him. A straight on collision to the right side of his cranium, caving it in so intensely that a sharp crunch engulfed his entire reality. It repeated, blurring the vision in his left eye, forcing him to exert all he could in his right to keep seeing - which was another problem all on its own. Blue and yellow pulsed from his eye socket like a strobe light, sending his head ringing, reeling away from all the magic he was wasting. He faced the kid, hoping to blind them just enough for them to pause, to stop, to give him another second to think of a counter attack, or at least some witty one-liner.

The kid didn't stop.

With a grin that could've fought for first place as a great substitute for Sans', the kid stabbed forward, perfectly into that still glowing eye socket. He felt the knife edge graze along the top of the opening, slicing through calcium-infused cartilage, setting every tooth of his to trembling. The spout of pain erupted when he felt his eye, already stressed to its limits, get completely destroyed by the attack. A wash of blue took over his sight – and then followed quickly by nothingness. He fell to his side. The seams along his skull were already diverging. Bitter thickness dripped through his teeth. The ringing inside his very soul wouldn't stop.

But the kid finally did.

Devoid of sight, devoured by one, forever constant sound that drowned out the rest, Sans could pretty much assume he was in bad shape. Yeah, real bad. He didn't dare reach a hand to his chest, afraid of what he might feel. Just fissures and empty space, where all that he was, all that he would be, was encaged in. Despite his abysmally low health, he was still graced with the presence of being here still, to fully experience the pain and regret in all its contours. Again, thanks to Alphys' project. That nerd sometimes did her job too well. Tendrils still tried to mend and reaffirm all of his broken pieces, but it was clearly having some trouble.

Feeling nothing else sharp pierce through him, besides his own little biting monologue of how he messed up so bad, he laughed. Or he guessed he did, he couldn't exactly hear too well to confirm that.

"finally done with me, kid?"

He assumed the kid didn't answer him. They hadn't talked all this time, why start now?

"good, because it was getting a little…repetitive, wasn't it?"

He chuckled again. It felt like gargling syrup. Damn, he must have looked and sounded really gross. Kid probably regretted not slicing off his mandibles through all that. Oh well, can't have it all.

He lifted his head and, somehow, just barely through the darkness that was now the only thing left for him, he could see a hint of red. It seeped through his ruptured pupils, bled through him invasively. The kid's soul was such a show-off. It wasn't content to just let him know he was stuck in perpetual death, hung over in limbo – it wanted him to know that the kid was still here, still ready, and still unsatisfied.

This kid had killed him before. Not once, not twice, but more. Dozens of times, hundreds even. Beating him down to dust but never going forward, resetting to their SAVE point just before meeting Sans in this last corridor, where the reflection of barely remembered sunlight spilled through the windows, dusky from its travel through the barrier. This kid had seen him die and, with some perverse sense of justification, of twisted enjoyment, had wanted to see him die again.

Sans wondered if the kid had killed him differently each time. A _bone-shuddering_ thought. Well, if he had any working bones left anyway.

Geez, what was taking so long? Why wasn't he just disintegrating already?

The red light flickered. Confused. Oh. So the kid was thinking the same thing. He felt a small hand place itself against his skull. Oh. So the kid was doing that, too. He supposed the concept of personal space was something that had already been trampled and decimated to bits a while ago. Didn't mean he had to like it.

Then he heard a voice through his ringing, non-existent ears.

"I want to play again."

It was a voice that was unrecognizable, uncanny, abnormal in every way. It was a voice that believed it was above consequences, that it was justified in turning the world the way they pleased. It was a voice that was simply enjoying it all way too much.

What a sick freak this kid was.

Why, it was almost enough to make a guy angry.

Before he could even pretend to die, Sans felt his existence shift, felt his appetite begin to turn over, flipping his heart into uncomfortable somersaults. It was a feeling he recognized, but never quite remembered. A feeling that all the other lucky Sans-es must have experienced, of their future completely halted, then rolled back down to zero. Of the world resetting itself all over again.

In the darkness of his ruined eyes, he saw the soul light up, like it was smiling. Which it mostly likely was.

That sick smile, that all too intimate pain that coursed through the husk that was left of his body -

It filled him with **determination.**

"I want to play again," they repeated, reaching for their choice.

Sans grabbed the kid's wrist with a mangled hand.

"nah."

Alphys' work webbed across his ribcage, turning their sharp edges to mush. He felt his grin sag just a little, but only because it was hard keeping himself together. His hand melted across the human's arm, like sizzling tar.

"you should take a break."

The ringing in his head stopped. It allowed him to hear the kid's startled gasp in all its glory.

Mercy's a thing to be treasured, something the old lady reminded him of that day. To protect, to spare, to believe in second chances – concepts that she truly put all her faith in. Hearing that in her voice was what compelled him to follow her words and to leave the human alone, despite all that he saw. And he had to be grateful to her for giving him such hope, such a great reason for him to think beyond the useless, the pointless, and the mundane. She had been a lot like Papyrus in that way. They would've gotten along great together. Except, of course, the kid had killed her first, killed his brother second, spitting at the idea of mercy, spreading both their dust around like it was lint. Can people really change for the better, even after all that?

Truthfully, Sans didn't think so. He was already mussing up the lady and his brother's legacies through such thoughts alone, when the kid had done that plenty. But he had his reasons. He hoped those two would understand.

The knife swerved horizontally, aiming for the fissures in his skull. But already those were patching up, melding together like putty. Still, he didn't take a chance. A bone twice his size sprouted from the ground, blocking the swing. The blade bit deep into the shield, sawing through calcified marrow, but not all the way. Sans' grip on the kid's other hand was sort of ruining the momentum there.

Then he realized the child was whimpering. It was a sound that was enough to move the most cold-hearted to pity.

Well.

"whats' wrong, buddo?" He still couldn't see, but he didn't need to. The air was gone, leaving nothing behind but regret. And Sans didn't feel like truth telling right now. "you look… heh… _chilled to the bone?"_

He felt a pulse hammering away, adrenaline rising to its limits. The kid was squirming. Oh, so he hadn't lied after all. How lucky. And he could hear himself now, too. Yikes, he really did sound all sorts of messed up.

He wrenched the kid's arm back, hearing it snap, much more easily than he expected it to. There was a cry, offset by heavy breathing. The emptiness in his chest didn't feel so empty anymore. Alphys' work was certainly coming along.

The sporting thing would be to let the kid have their turn, and maybe give them some space to restructure themselves. But Sans was never good at sportsmanship. Besides, there was karma to be considered here.

The kid swung their knife again. It clashed against the bone repeatedly, trying to sever it. But unlike the rest of himself, Sans' weapons remained as rigid and upright as his will to pull through. The kid shook with each motion, and then they shook so much that their fingers could barely hold onto the hilt. Sans tightened his hold, and just that small amount was enough for the knife to fall to the floor, clattering among bone fragments, pouring magic, and determination that writhed around them both like puddles of sentient mud that had been soaked in crimson.

The kid spoke again. "I'm sorry," they said.

Sans blinked – a dangerous maneuver, he could've fused his eyelids shut permanently by doing that, give his body's current circumstances – and he thought about it. His vision was getting better, and now he saw the tear tracks on the child's face, the wild look in their eyes, and the gruesome angle of their arm. Their striped shirt was covered in gritty dust and liquefied red. At that moment, they looked pathetic and alone, a small kid trapped in this world of monsters and darkness, subjected to damp caverns and the spooky skeletons that lived within.

"wow," Sans uttered. "you must be desperate."

He pushed them back, enough for the kid's sneakers to scuff across the dirty floor and land on their back. Except they never got to. Sans motioned his finger bones with a barely seen gesture, and daggers of white rose forth to pierce through the kid's chest, seriously damaging some of those vital organs that humans had. Damage, but not kill. Not yet.

What happened next wasn't pretty.

From what he had gathered from history books – actual ones, not those belonging to good ol' Alphys – humans had a tendency to think they owned the place. Invincible, immortal, or whatever else – it was why they created the barrier in the first place. But, Sans had a theory. Despite the fragility of monsters against a human's perseverance, they could still inflict some good, life-lasting injuries against those made of flesh and physical matter. Sans had already been trying it out before – hurt them enough, and soon they'd remember that they were just slabs of meat, prone to tearing and shredding, and an ungodly mess. That was another problem with humans. They always left such a filthy mess behind, even after death. Monsters barely ever left a trace, their dust whisked away by the winds to degrade back nothingness. But humans always left their mark, no matter what.

Even with Sans' shambling body, oozing out that problematic slime to mix with red, it would vanish once he kicked the bucket, sludge transforming to chalky dust. The kid though… well, Sans wasn't looking forward to the clean-up. He pitied the sucker that would have to deal with that.

It's payback, really. The kid's will was strong, but each bone fragment inside their chest, their stomach, their shoulder blades, eventually started to take their toll. Their final showdown was not conducive to mental health, but not like anyone was around to witness those grisly details. Sans had long ago shut off his empathy meter to really give any damn to the kid's pain. They had already killed dozens of monsters, nearing the big 1 double 0. All that were gone were now only faded memories. Sans couldn't let something like that just slide. Forgiveness didn't really work with him. _Sorry, old lady. Sorry, bro. Too lazy to change my ways, I guess._

At the end of it all, the kid can no longer take it. They're dead before anything more can happen.

That was fine. Sans was getting tired himself.

The child's body was a crumpled thing that wasn't anything remotely normal. Sans thought it was fitting, finding this gruesome heap of nightmares where familiar pricks of white poked out from, to be a perfect reflection. Maybe, though, he should have been worried that this amount of blood on his hands wasn't really giving him too much of a headache. Or that those other, fleeting memories, where the sun was shining on him, and where the kid had a smile that was quiet but eager, with hands that were free from any calluses, didn't mean much to him anymore. Just another consumed timeline. He'd had enough regrets as it is.

The soul floated out of that decimated body, it's curved shape deceptively lovely, like some bright cut out that children would first trace out on their construction paper, then wash it in sprinkles and glitters while writing another's name in loopy scrawls. It was an innocent thing, at first, something only a small kid could make up. But souls, especially human souls, never made much sense. They were floating, eerie contradictions. A catalyst for so many powerful emotions, but cruelty most of all. He had never much liked them in the first place.

The soul flickered, faded in and out. But Sans grasped it between his webbed fingers before it could do much else.

"let's not do that," he breathed. "okay, kid?"

The soul writhed between his bones like a squirming tapeworm. Its shiny gloss was really just a film of sliminess. Its cliché shape distended at odd, disquieting directions. It threatened to escape, rolling between the spaces of his phalanges, but never quite making it. His hold was tight, keeping the soul rooted before it could fly away to whatever secret space it knew that housed the world's reset button.

There was a buzzing in the back of his head. Puzzled, he leaned down, closer to that red mass.

The soul was screaming.

Heh, nice.

As he held it, stressing it tightly, little ideas bubbled inside his skull. The power of one human soul could do some pretty amazing things. Terrible things, too, going by his personal experience. Monster souls usually couldn't compare. Just having one of these was enough to boost a monster's will and power to unfathomable heights. Heck, just holding this thing made him believe he could cheat death even more and keep his limbs from grinding down to dust.

He could eat it up like some squirming, very much alive dessert. He could also bring it to Asgore as the final soul needed to break the barrier. Then all monsters could be free to go to a world where more of these creatures existed, where their determination was unrestrained, and tools of destruction spread out before them easily, like an ocean full of old, re-used water. Or he could keep it here, among the dust and the reflected light.

"if i took you in," he said, curious, "could i bring them all back?"

Could he fix every mistake he ever made?

Heh… even so, it was hard to move.

When the soul pleaded with him, when it shifted towards him as soon as he spoke, like he had thrown the slimmest of lifelines, he knew he had his answer.

"alright then."

The points of his fingers dug through, clawing through red and what felt like flesh.

"can't say it's been nice knowing ya."

The soul screamed again, and it kept screaming and screaming until it skittered around in his skull like a filthy cockroach. The screams turned to hisses, which then turned to cries, which then turned to the squeals of a tiny pig or maybe more like that of a scared, hurting child-

And suddenly, the soul broke into thousands of tiny pieces that dug into the crevices of his fingers. Parasitic, seeking warmth, but it was going to have trouble. Can't find life where none of it exists. Those tiny mites soon melted along with him, dripping to the floor to mix in with his own mess, and with the remains of that kid.

Once the echoes stopped, all he could hear were the birds. Singing, chirping, their notes warbled from way up on the surface. How could their sounds travel so far down anyway?

He appreciated it though.

He… appreciated it a lot.

Funny, the Judgement Hall was a lot bigger then he remembered. Or maybe that was because he was shrinking. Probably that.

He closed his eyes, knowing he would not able to open them again, not at all. But the dark was very relaxing, and in that space of complete nothingness, he felt better than he had in such a long time.

In that space, he found the way home.

Having legs would be useful. Having his shortcuts, even more. But he'd already met his quota for trying things today.

This was good enough.

Wow.

He was _really_ tired.

Might as well take a nap.

Sans lowered his head, or what was left of it anyway, and let his sins slide off him like dirty water. Easy to do. He took another breath, and this one stuck inside his throat, not like it would choke him, but more like it stayed suspended, keeping him the same state as before. A moment in time, where you never move forward or back, but were just as is.

Then he breathed out.

* * *

On the edge of Mt. Ebott, everyone stood in silence, staring at the setting sun that painted the sky in shades of orange and pink. The light was warm, and the air was fresh. There were birds singing, and there were flowers bright against the landscape, golden and soft. Papyrus had turned to him, asking him in his not so quiet voice, just what that giant ball hanging above them was.

"we call that 'the sun', my friend." And seeing his brother so excited that he was meeting such an amazing thing was enough to bring smiles to everyone.

But Sans wanted to be sure.

He turned to his left, leaning a bit to look past Toriel's body (who smiled just as brightly, her eyes aglow with relief) to find the kid. Frisk stood there, arms hanging by their sides, head upturned to the sky that they must know pretty well. Sensing Sans' stare, they turned to him, eyes as neutral as ever, except…

They were smiling, too.


End file.
